


Squids and Alcohol

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, M/M, awkward drunken flirting, but only because of pills, implied/referenced erectile dysfunction, squids, what the hell is this even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:12:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles works for a newspaper, answering calls from locals about things going on around town. One night Derek calls, claiming his sister is a miracle worker. Stiles surprisingly doesn't hang up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Squids and Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanofchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanofchaos/gifts).



> i can't take myself seriously at 3 am  
> so  
> good luck with that

Stiles clicks his pen as he nods along, the woman's voice in his ear almost background noise at this point. He gave up on interrupting her ten minutes ago and lets her ramble as he doodles on a note pad.

He thinks he's drawing a squid. He's not exactly sure how many legs a squid has though. Six? Eight? He makes a mental note to Google it when he gets home.

Ms. Harriet coughs in his ear, as if a reminder that he's not going home for another hour.

He adds a monocle to his squid, and a cane, because that is one dapper motherfucker, as he sighs, “And that's very nice, Ms. Harriet, but, like I told you last week, your weekend garage sale is not important news. I've been dragged to that place quite a few times in my years, Ms. H, and I wouldn't go again unless you had a bronze plated statue of a dragon poised breathing fire in a menacing fashion.”

He takes a deep breath and adds a bow tie to his little squiddy, humming as he politely ignores Ms. Harriet's shocked gasp.

“I'll be happy to forward you to our ad department, but I really don't think it's worth the investment.”

Stiles begins drawing martini for his young gentleman while Ms. Harriet hangs up, muttering something about calling his dad.

Stiles is very happy that he's twenty two and moved into his own shitty apartment last year. He shivers, fearing the punishment his father would bestow upon him for sending a stubborn woman like Ms. Harriet his way.

The worst he can do now is viciously eat a steak and text Stiles pictures of it.

Stiles tears a piece of paper off of his notepad and wads it up, crumbling it quietly between his hands. He leans forward, peaking over the barrier of his small, office cubicle, and carefully aims at the back of Danny's head. He swoops his arm, as carefully as a basketball player scoring the final point, and fist pumps as it bounces off of the other man's shoulder and lands on the floor.

Danny sighs, a long suffering sigh as his eyes roll up to the heavens, clearly asking God what he did to deserve being stuck in a small, square office next to Stiles Stilinski.

Or he's trying to drill holes into Lydia's private corner office on the second floor. Stiles has never been able to read Danny that well.

“Hey,” He whispers, trying not to interrupt Greenburg on the other side of him, fumbling frantically for a pen as some innocent bystander relays some obviously important news story. “Is there a way to block repeat callers?”

Danny sighs, again, and looks away, “Just forward her call to the help desk, Stiles. We've all had to learn to deal with stubborn costumers.”

Stiles mocks him under his breath when Danny turns back to his computer to answer another incoming call.

He's only been working at Beacon County Star for two weeks. Lydia, the angelic goddess she is, got him the interview after he ended up at her apartment crying about bills and an unstable financial future for the sixth time in the course of a month.

Stiles eyes the red light on his phone, alerting him of a new caller. An angelic goddess. Truly.

It pays the bills though, which is all he needs at this point, and the hours are good. He gets to do work for his online classes in his down time, because actually going to the community college down the street seemed a bit too much like effort.

Stiles picks up the phone again, pen poised as a young woman recounts something about a good Samaritan downtown.

His job is pretty simply, in all honesty. He answers the phone, writes down the general information people give him, and forwards it to the big guys upstairs. The big guys upstairs are people like Lydia, who actually finished college in a timely fashion and have degrees and are respected writers of the community. Stiles may or may not be jealous, the verdict isn't in yet.

Stiles takes down the phone number of the woman calling, because the more interviews an article has, the better it is, and fills out the necessary form to email upstairs.

It's all very important work.

Stiles puts his phone down and stretches, listening to his back crack with a satisfying pop as he sighs. The basement they're shuffled in is nice enough to not be called a basement, but it's underground and cold and there aren't any windows so Stiles feels justified in calling it a basement. There's only two other people down here, Erica and Heather, a unisex bathroom, and a break room.

It's a small town. There's not a lot of news stories that come pouring in on the best of days.

It pays by the hour, though, so. He's not complaining too much.

The clock on the wall says he has half an hour to go before he can go home and take his pants off. Stiles clicks his pen anxiously.

Five minutes later, his squid has a very detailed top hat.

His phone rings again and Stiles sighs in frustration as he picks it up. Wednesdays are always the worst news days. Monday and Tuesday- he barely gets five calls, but Wednesdays are filled with people being bored out of their minds and looking for anything exciting to happen.

“Beacon County Star,” Stiles says it so often he's not entirely sure it's a real phrase anymore, “Stiles speaking. What news do you have for us today?”

There's a swishing sound, like water on glass, and then a deep voice rumbles, “I- I have a great story for you guys. Are you ready?”

Stiles clicks his pen again and nods, “Yep. Totally ready.”

There's another noise in the background, something racketeering against each other, and the voice says, “My sister? She's a fucking miracle worker.”

There's a tilt to the guys voice, but it's almost six o'clock in the afternoon and Stiles really hopes it's just a lisp.

Any other day he'd keep this going for a good laugh, but his tivo is calling to him and another Jesus Savior story is not what he needs to hear about.

“I'd be happy to give you the number for the church on Welks Street,” Stiles says, thumbing absently through the number sheet he has stapled to the wall of his pitiful office, “They love putting stories like that in their weekly bulletin.”

“No,” the guy cuts him off immediately, “No, no, no, okay? It's a _scientific miracle_.”

“Oooh,” Stiles mumbles dryly, “Sciencey things.”

“Sciencey things,” The guy confirms.

Ten more minutes to go.

“Lay it on me, big guy,” Stiles orders, “Give me this sciencey revelation.”

Stiles thinks Danny is eying him like he has an extra head. He's too busy hearing about sciencey things to pay dimple face much attention.

“Alright, ready?” He asks again. Stiles clicks his pen in reply. “My sister? Cured goddamn depression.”

It shocks a laugh out of him. A sharp bark of a laugh that has him rushing to slap a hand over his mouth and his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

Erica raises an eyebrow at him, a smirk on her face that clearly says just what she thinks of him, but she has a pimple on her chin so Stiles just sticks his tongue out at her. He liked her better when she hid behind her epilepsy before Lydia pulled her, kicking and screaming, into the high school limelight.

After he manages to get control of himself, Stiles clears his throat, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” The guy sighs. It's a sad sigh, one that makes Stiles' chest ache, “But you'll never guess the best part. It'ssosimple _._ I just _stop being depressed_.”

Stiles snorts at the familiar phrase and sarcastically agrees, “That's front page news right there.”

The guy laughs, “Right? Like, I didn't know she had a PHD in being a _bitch_.”

Stiles doesn't even try to contain his laughter, even as the guy rushes to say, “I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. She's just frustrated. She's a really great sister.”

Stiles bites at his cheek to hold in the rest of his chuckles, his dad's broken face behind his eyelids when Stiles was seventeen and refused to get out of bed enough to sober him up.

“Yeah, I'm sure she is,” Stiles agrees, “But she shouldn't take it out on you.”

The guy hums just as the clock strikes six. There's activity around him, Danny, Heather, Erica, and Greenburg getting up and putting their stuff away. Normally, Stiles would be right there with them, but something about the guy keeps him still and sitting.

The guy sighs and Stiles can picture the faceless dude at a bar, and asks, “Hey, are you drinking right now?”

“Mmhm,” The guy breathes out. There's another noise and Stiles thinks it's him taking another swig.

He bites his lip, eying the clock. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't.

He does anyway. “What bar are you at?”

* * *

The bar mystery drunk guy is at is hardly even a bar. It's more of a tavern, tucked behind a convenience store. There's only five cars in the dark parking lot. Stiles isn't impressed at drunk guys drinking choices.

Inside, the place smells like cigars and looks far too much like Moe's tavern to be purely coincidence. The guy behind the bar is even gargoylesque enough to warrant a double take.

Seriously judging drunk guys ability to pick drinking places.

Two guys are playing pool, puffing on fat cigars and laughing about something. A girl is standing next to them, beer bottle in hand, and a dark jacket draped over her shoulders. She seems the least inebriated, so Stiles wanders over to her.

“Uh, do you know a guy who was in here a few minutes ago? I think he used the phone. Was talking about scientific miracles?”

The girl raises an eyebrow at him curiously and shrugs, “Uh, that guy at the bar was on his phone earlier? I wasn't really paying attention to him, though.”

'That guy at the bar' is actually a mega beef cake supreme with a side of fries. Or, at least, he is from the back. Stiles nods thankfully at her and tentatively approaches Mr. Beef Cake.

He's nursing a water bottle, eyes sunken and red like he's been crying. His lips are cracked and bloody, though, so Stiles thinks it's more from withholding tears than actually doing any shedding. His face is gaunt, like he's been hidden away from things like sunlight and actual food for a few days, and his hair is thick and greasy.

Stiles must have weird taste, because there's something about the guy that still makes him eye those shoulders appreciatively.

“Uh,” Is his intelligent icebreaker as he carefully takes the seat next to Mr. Beef Cake. “I'm the guy. From the phone.”

Stiles looks down at the wooden bar, wondering how hard he'd have to hit himself against it to erase that opening from his memory.

The guy next to him turns to him quietly, a strange look on his face, “Oh,” He grunts, fullstop, “That really did happen.”

“Yep,” Stiles nods, feeling his face heat because he came here to be some valiant hero and here the guy is, completely lucid and drinking water. His timing sucks. “You're a lot less intimidating on the phone though, if I'm being honest.”

“It's the voice,” He says absently, taking another sip of water.

The guy pulls it back and looks at it, as if wondering when someone took away his beer and traded it for this pure spring bullshit. Stiles sees Gargoyle Bartender roll his eyes a few stools down.

Maybe not completely sober, then.

Stiles bites his lip, wondering if it would be rude to ask Mr. Beef Cake when the last time he took his pills was.

Stiles has been doing this rodeo for a few years, okay? He takes his pills at night, because they make him too drowsy if he takes them in the morning, and if he knows he's going to be drinking, he tries to time it at least four hours before or after he takes his pills.

Scott and him got really bored during senior year and perfected the timing during party hopping.

He just isn't sure if this guy has a system figured out yet or not.

“I'm Derek,” Mr. Beef Cake says, surprising Stiles with his voice.

He may jump. Maybe. He's not admitting to anything, “Stiles.”

Derek nods decisively. “I'd flirt with you,” He says suddenly, shocking Stiles again, but for a different reason this time, “But the pills I'm on give me limp dick.”

Stiles snorts, tension easily falling from his shoulders with a laugh, “I'd take a limp dick over what my first prescription gave me. Picture me, seventeen year old fertile male, horny all the time, and unable to achieve orgasm. At. All.”

Derek's eyes widen and he looks up from the bar and into Stiles' face, completely skipping over Stiles' big 'I have depression too dude' reveal. So rude. “They can do that?”

He nods grimly, “It's rare, but it can happen. And masturbating? Surprisingly did nothing to alleviate it at all. Like, there I was, not only depressed, but also horny out of my damn skull. Like, if you think it's bad now, imagine not being able to come.”

Derek looks down at his water bottle, suitably horrified.

“I switched meds though,” Stiles assures him, winking, feeling a rush of confidence as Derek lets out a small, airy chuckle, “And you should totally flirt with me even if you _do_ have a limp dick.”

“How noble of you,” Derek laughs, and it lightens his face a bit in a way that Stiles very much likes.

He ogles Derek's shoulders out of the corner of his eyes, the curve of his neck, and agrees, “Yes, very noble of me.”

Derek opens his mouth again, hopefully to continue this weird flirty banter thing they've fallen into, when the Gargoyle Bartender appears out of nowhere, rubbing a glass with a dish rag like all bartenders do.

“Anything I can get you, sir?”

Stiles bites his tongue to not ask him to give him a time machine to go back and stop him from interrupting this beautiful conversation. Some people just have a radar for ruining things, Stiles guesses.

He asks for a coke, because his throat has definitely gotten more dry after sitting next to this Derek dude.

The bartender nods, scoops ice out of some magical canister under the bar, pulls on a nozzle, and flicks switches until dark soda fizzles into the cup. He sets it in front of Stiles, plopping a little straw into it like it's the final touch on the Sistine chapel. Stiles wishes he took that much pride in his own work.

He thanks him with a nod of his head and the small man smiles before stalking back down to the other side of the bar to check on his other customers playing pool.

There's a weird tension In the air now. Stiles is able to feel it as soon as the bartender walked away, a weird wall between him and Derek where there was only laughter and erectile dysfunction jokes a few seconds ago.

Okay, it wasn't the most titillating of conversations, but it was a nice one.

In his opinion, anyway.

Stiles reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a pen, a habit he never got out of in sophomore year, and pulls a napkin off of a stack to his right. His dapper squid definitely needs a friend, Stiles decides. Since he has no game it doesn't mean spiddy boy hasn't got any either, right?

He's just finished outlining the body when he feels eyes on him. He looks up, catching Derek's hazel eyes in rapt attention on the napkin and fights the urge to cover it with his hands.

“I draw squids when I'm awkward,” Stiles explains, cheeks going red.

Derek snorts, eyes jumping from the napkin to Stiles' face, “No you don't. Squids have ten tentacles.”

Stiles looks down at his doodle, at the eight little dancing legs, and says sullenly, “I feel like I'm being lied to right now.”

“Nope,” Derek grins, teeth a bright white in the poor lighting, “It's a fact.”

“That just seems unnecessary,” Stiles grouches when he's recovered from that beautiful smile, “What's a squid to do with ten arms?”

Derek shrugs, eyebrows scrunching, “Squid stuff? I don't know. Squids are weird.”

Stiles looks down at his little squid and agrees sadly, “Yeah.”

They sit quietly for a few more minutes, Derek watching as Stiles continues drawing his not-squid. It feels better than before, and Stiles marvels at how easily this conversation is to shift. It might be because one party has had a few drinks, but alas. Stiles thinks it's okay.

Derek sighs, apparently disagreeing with his mental pep talk, and asks, “Stiles, what are you doing here?”

Stiles looks up, eyebrows scrunching, “What do you mean?”

“I mean what are you doing here? Why did you come? Why didn't you hang up when I started talking about miracles?”

“Sciencey miracles,” Stiles corrects immediately, and shrugs, frowning at the question, “I don't even know, man. I usually just forward those kind of calls to the help department. You kinda sounded like you needed to talk to someone, though.”

Derek's mouth tightens, “So you just came here to give me pity?”

Stiles can't help the eye roll and dryly says, “Yes, Derek, I gave up my Wednesday night to come pity some drunk stranger at a bar. No, idiot, that wasn't it.”

Derek just stares at him, as if waiting for him to continue, and Stiles runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I don't know. I guess... I was just where you are before, and I always had someone there for me. Even when I pushed them away, you know?” Stiles shrugs, looking back down at his napkin not-squid, “I just don't think anyone should go through this thing alone, okay?”

Derek stares at him, as if he's looking right through him.“You're not going to fix me,” Derek warns him, face grave, like he's staring at the ghost of people who've tried and failed before.

This conversation feels way too serious for having literally just met this guy, but Stiles only balks at him, “What are we, in an 80's movie? There's nothing to fix, moron.”

Derek eyes him like he just told him the world was square and Stiles sighs, a familiar ache thudding in his chest. He wants to crawl inside of Derek and whisper in his ear everything Stiles has taken years to learn, all the knowledge and self help he's fought tooth and nail to accept. He wants Derek to have never felt this way, this hopelessness that settles in on him everyday. He can't take away his pain, though.

No one can ever make Derek okay except himself.

But he can make it easier, just by being there.

“I'm not your manic pixie dream boy,” Stiles tells him dryly, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing, “There's nothing to fix _because you aren't broken_.”

Derek's eyes are widen in awe, and he says quietly, “If my dick didn't hate me right now I would ask you to come back to my apartment and make you fall in love with me.”

Stiles thinks it's the most romantic thing any drunk person has ever said to him.

“Can you get home okay?” He asks him, blushing despite himself.

Derek nods, “I called my sister after I got off the phone with you to apologize. She'll be here soon.”

Stiles smirks, fighting back a laugh, “Good.” He writes his phone number on the napkin and hands it to Derek, silently hoping his dapper squid won't be too mad at him for giving away not-squid, and demands, “Text me tomorrow when you're sober and we can talk some more about your dick.”

He's not even halfway out of his stool when Derek pulls him back down. Stiles laughs into the kiss, and Derek honest to God smiles.

He's never looked more forward to a Thursday in his life.  


End file.
